


A Little Like Bait

by Anonymous



Series: A Little Like [2]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, David Rossi is overprotective, Foyet's canon creepiness, Garcia and Hotch's friendship is underrated, Gen, Hotch gets a hug, Hotch pretends he's ok when he's not, Hotch uses professionalism to avoid talking about how he really feels, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Injury, M/M, Protective Team, Team as Family, and probably the only one Hotch will let get away with it, now will slightly more Foyet creepiness as of chapter two, this was supposed to be short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After Foyet visits him in the hospital, Hotch know he needs to give a new profile on the Boston Reaper. It’s made more difficult by how, this time, he’s the victim, and his team have always been overprotective when it comes to one of their own.A.K.A Hotch is getting his damn hug whether he likes it or not.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & The BAU Team, Foyet/Hotch is very much onesided and mostly implied in this part, George Foyet/Aaron Hotchner
Series: A Little Like [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910071
Comments: 16
Kudos: 130
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 because I accidentally wrote part 3 first and had to go back. I realised I needed a little more scene setting so things wind down a little in this one. This should be two chapters. Still figuring out how to write the team—the second chapter is giving me a little bit of trouble but should be up in about a week. I am incapable of writing anything short. This was supposed to be 3,000 words at most!

Hotch hasn't rested since Foyet left.

The doctor had told had said that he needed to sleep, but Hotch found himself unable to even try, rejecting the drugs they suggested as an aid. He had too much to think about. 

There was too much to _do_. 

He checked his phone, read the text one more time, and contemplated his response. It would have been foolish to respond immediately, would have played right to Foyet’s ego, so Hotch was letting a little time go by. Tactical choices aside—he was getting a vindictive thrill from making him wait.

It had been a taunting message, unsurprising from Foyet.

_thanks for giving me your number, wanna know why you did it?_

He was trying to draw him into a conversation—had kept things remarkably tame—and Hotch was contemplating how to best play his role as bait for maximum efficiency. For maximum effect.

The doctor hadn’t wanted to give him a pen and paper, had made a face of stern disapproval and insisted he should sleep, but they couldn’t really stop him. Hotch had spent the last few hours alternating between scribbling down a few extra additions to Foyet’s profile and playing scrabble on his phone. It helped him relax, passed the time, and allowed him to keep quietly churning the problem over in his mind. The roses were still on the table in front of him, a flash of scarlet in his periphery, and he had the sudden urge, the fiercest temptation, to toss them out the nearest window.

He checked the time again—it had been four hours since Foyet had texted him— Hotch wondered how much he’d pissed him off by forcing him to wait.

He read the text again.

Hotch knew his answer. Had known it the moment he’d read the words for the first time. This was what he did—what he was good at—and Foyet may think he was special, an exception, but he was a killer just like the rest. He was human just like the rest. And he had weaknesses, tells and vulnerabilities, and Hotch was very, very good at figuring those out. 

_I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist._

The reply took barely a few minutes. Hotch had known there was no way Foyet would make _him_ wait. 

_thought you’d ignore me forever, unsettled?_

He’d felt ignored, but he hadn’t returned the favour. The lure of taunting him in return, the pleasure of getting him to engage in conversation had been too strong. Hotch’s reply was simple. 

_No._

_liar_

He smirked and didn’t reply, flicking through his phone and deliberately ignoring the text. Time for another game of scrabble.

It was an hour later that Garcia arrived.

Hotch hadn’t been expecting her, had been expecting Rossi, but he couldn’t deny that he was pleased.

There was an agent guarding his door—a necessary precaution that nonetheless rankled him—and they had let Garcia through without a word. She was, unquestioningly, on the list of people allowed to see him with without being scrutinised. Her beaming smile when he looked up and met her eyes made sure that he smiled in return, it was impossible not to in the face of such genuine optimism. This had always been her way. Any room she entered was happier for her presence. The dull hospital room didn't stand a chance.

“How’s Reid?”

It had to be the first thing he asked. He’d been shot in the leg, shot while Hotch had been useless in the hospital, and he couldn't help but worry. It was his fault. He should have been there, in the field, with his team, and his absence from the case had split their focus. He should have been with them.

“Grumpy about being kept out of the field, but resting at home, same as last time you asked, sir.” Garcia replied cautiously.

“Good.” Hotch allowed himself to feel relieved. Reid was still alright, nothing had happened to him. Nothing would happen to him.

She hurried over to him, hesitating only a little while she reached into the bag she had brought, and placed a tin of what could only be cookies next to the roses on the table.

“I didn’t know what flavour you’d like so I had to guess but I made cranberry and white chocolate because you need to eat more sugar, sir.” Penelope said all of this in one breath and, then, catching sight of the roses, smiled brightly. “Ooh, they’re lovely.”

Despite himself, Hotch’s lips twitched.

Garcia’s expression turned from delighted to disgusted in the blink of an eye. “Eww, they’re from Foyet aren’t they? What kind of sick, twisted—”

Hotch reached for the tin of cookies. “Cranberry and white chocolate is my favourite.”

She paused mid-sentence and looked at him suspiciously. “It is?”

It was personal information, harmless, a truly useless fact, but Hotch was a very private man. This was Garcia though. He nodded as he opened the tin and took out a cookie. “How’d you know?”

If it had been Rossi, or Reid, or any other member of the team, the answer would have been analytical to a fault. It would have described little moments, little tells, and how it had all formed pieces of a puzzle they had put together. This little personal preference would be another part of their picture of him in their minds—the profile everyone promised they wouldn’t make but couldn’t help making anyway.

Not Garcia though. She just blinked at him for a moment. “I had some leftovers, and I just thought it might be something you’d like.”

“Thank you.” Hotch said as he ate a cookie—they tasted incredible— offering her the tin so she could take one too.

The motion accidentally drew attention to the marks on his wrists, the finger shaped bruises that had turned purple, and Garcia’s horrified gaze snapped to his face. He could see the exact moment she realised he had a new bandage on his neck, read the very real shock in her eyes, and resisted the urge to hunch a little. There was empathy there, so much empathy, and not a hint of profiling. Just the naked emotion of someone who didn’t filter every observation as a tool. It was refreshing, after Foyet, before his team arrived, to feel someone look at him and not pick him apart. 

Rossi had called her, Hotch realised, because he knew she would be exactly what he needed.

Damn him for being right. The sneaky overprotective bastard.

“Sir—”

“Take a cookie, then sit down and we can talk.” He said gently.

Garcia took one and sat in the chair next to his bed. She took a bite hesitantly, unable to hide how her eyes flicked over him in worry. “Sir—”

“Have you finished your cookie?” Hotch raised his brow and used his sternest voice, unable to hide his small smile.

Garcia practically beamed back, reassured. They both ate their cookies in a companionable silence that managed to leech all the remaining tension from Hotch’s shoulders. He noticed that she relaxed a little too, seemed more at ease, but she also kept looking at him as if she was figuring out what to say. He knew that she had questions, knew he was going to have to practise giving an explanation, and now was as good a time as any to start.

“Are you ok?” Garcia wasted no time when she was done. “And I know you’re going to say yes, because it’s you, and you’re our boss, so that means you’ve always got to be in charge. But—if you’re not, if there is anything that I can do, you just have to say the word.”

“I’m fine.” Hotch said automatically, testing how it sounded and wondering if he could make it seem less mechanical. “Thank you.”

She didn’t push. Not the way the others might have—would do. Garcia only frowned, looking at the roses and then looking back to him. “What did he even want?”

“I’m still working that out.” Hotch admitted, though he knew that he had a very clear picture of what Foyet had wanted. “To try and scare me a little, show dominance, maybe, but the roses imply a different sort of fixation.”

Garcia was looking at his neck again. She frowned, glaring at the roses. “Gross, so he’s like, what, your creepy obsessive stalker now?”

Despite the truth in that, Hotch couldn’t help his amusement. “I guess he is.”

“Did he—” Garcia gestured to his neck. “um, sir this is really awkward but that wasn’t there last time I saw you and with the- the bruises and the new bandages I’m having flashbacks to some really icky crime scene photos. Can I ask?”

“As I said, he just wanted to establish dominance.” Hotch was displaying classic avoidance behaviour and he needed to work through it before he met up with his team. He forced himself to continue. “There was no— sexual assault. Not like how you are thinking. The bruises are superficial, he bit me hard enough to leave a mark, but that was as far as it went.”

Garcia swallowed, eyes a little glassy, and stood up. “Sir, I’m going to hug you now because you definitely need it.”

Her request caught him so off guard that he was nodding before he even realised that he should probably say no. He couldn’t help but think of Haley and Jack, who only had each other, separated from all that they knew because of him. Would he ever be able to hold his son again? And Haley—well, Hotch didn’t think he deserved this comfort. Not when all of this was his fault. It was his fault for goading Foyet, for not realising someone had broken into his apartment. He hadn't even checked. Why had he let his guard down?

Garcia seemed to pick up on his hesitation.

She hugged him before he could change his mind. She approached swiftly, but carefully, leaning down and wrapping her arms around him gently. It didn’t hurt at all. The medication he was on dulled the pain, covered it in fog, and he was finding he was getting used to the ache of his wounds. Hotch automatically lifted his arms to hug her back, slow and clumsy, feeling a little awkward for a moment, but then Penelope tightened her grip just a little, and he heard himself sigh as he relaxed. He wasn’t being held down. He could break her hold if he wanted but it was firm, secure. With his face buried in her shoulder, it felt acceptable to allow himself this small bit of comfort. If only for a moment. 

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” Penelope said suddenly.

“No.” Hotch said, his voice a little muffled. “You aren’t hurting me.”

She squeezed him a little tighter and he found that he couldn’t help but laugh, just a small little chuckle. For a moment, Penelope seemed surprised, then she laughed too, relaxing her grip and pulling back. She let go slowly, as if afraid he was going to disappear, running a hand through his hair affectionately. Hotch couldn’t help but relax even more—melt a little—the touch felt nice, platonic and comforting.

“It’s nice to hear you laugh, sir.” Garcia said and he knew it was genuine.

“Don’t tell anyone that I know how.” Hotch said wryly.

“You have really great hair, sir, and it’s really soft.” She frowned. “I didn’t overstep a boundary did I because if I did I’m really—”

“You didn’t overstep.” Hotch reassured her. “I’m grateful that you came to visit. Rossi call you?”

Garcia opened her mouth to speak, shut it, then opened it again. “How did you know? Wait! Silly question, of course you know, all of you do that freaky little mind reading thing. You know he’s not the only reason I’m here though, right?”

She sounded genuinely distressed by the thought. Hotch couldn’t help but feel effortlessly fond.

“Of course I know that.” Hotch told her.

Garcia nodded vigorously. 

“Can I ask a favour?” Hotch said suddenly.

His eyes were drawn to the agent standing guard outside his room. It was a necessary precaution while he was in the hospital and he knew he was probably going to need to fight extra protections— being followed, _watched_ , having his phones tapped, being kept out of the field and offered witness protection like he had when they’d offered it to Haley. There was no way. There was no way he was letting any of that happen. He’d already have to deal with the questions, from his team, from _Strauss_ ; questions on what had happened when Foyet had attacked him, what had happened when Foyet had come back, and he really wasn’t looking forward to discussing this with his superiors. The pysch evaluation would be easy to pass, easy to sail through without giving anything away.

But he really, really wasn’t looking forward to making a witness statement.

This though, _this_ , being trapped here, there was something he could do about that right now.

“Anything.” Garcia replied so seriously, looking at him with worry. He didn’t like being worried about, but he couldn’t begrudge her.

Hotch smirked “Help me get out of this hospital?”

The rest was easy.

By the time Rossi texted to say he was on his way, that they had landed, Hotch was no longer an inpatient. 

Using a combination of bribery (the cookies), the presence of a responsible adult to help get Hotch home (Penelope had taken this part a little too seriously), and visual manipulation (Hotch refused to call it ‘using puppy eyes to get his own way’)—Hotch was free to leave. It had been Rossi’s fault really, sending Garcia. Morgan would have flat out said no, Prentiss would have actually held him down, Reid would probably have make him feel guilty for asking, JJ would _definitely_ have made him feel guilty for asking, and Rossi would have convinced the doctors to keep him in even longer as petty revenge.

So now he was sitting in Garcia’s car, in fresh clothes, his bag at his feet, roses on the backseat and out of sight, and he felt like he could finally breath again.

Hotch knew what it was. Knew that the hospital had felt too exposed, that he’d never have been able to sleep in that room again, that it was his mind reacting to the trauma. But it didn’t change the fact that he wanted to place some distance between himself and the building. It didn’t change the fact that being back in his suit, shirt buttoned up to the collar, sleeves covering his bruised wrists, made him feel like he was wearing armour.

“I need to go back to the office.” Hotch said. “The team—they’ll want to know what happened.”

“I told the doctor I’d take you home.” Garcia said, frowning at him. “You shouldn’t really be working, sir.”

“I promise I won’t.” Hotch said. 

“You aren’t going to do anything crazy,” Garcia said suddenly, peering at him sternly as she put her seat belt on. Hotch was reminded of the fact that very few people would ever cross her. “because I will not be responsible for helping you do that.”

The sir was missing this time. Hotch nodded, his smile small, putting on his own seatbelt gingerly. His limbs felt unsteady, tired, and he was as slow as he’d been when he’d tried to push Foyet off of him. The vulnerability unsettled him; because he knew with certainty that, right now, until he healed, he was defenceless. Helpless. He was nauseatingly easy to attack. He forced himself to ignore the thought, clicked his seatbelt into place and hid his wince. It hurt a little, tugged at his stitches. The pain was making itself known now—he was off the IV—but he found as long as he was careful, he was fine. 

He had to be fine.

“I should have done that for you.” Garcia said, expression guilty.

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Hotch said honestly. 

It was then, as they were driving, that Rossi’s text came through, and Hotch didn’t even try and suppress his smirk as he replied.

_Not in the hospital, I’m with Garcia. Conference room in 20?_

His phone started ringing almost immediately. 

“Go ahead.” Hotch said casually when he answered.

“Aaron, you better not be in a car right now.” Dave sounded very much like he was prepared to march Hotch right back to the hospital if he gave the wrong answer.

“I’m not driving.” Hotch replied.

“That is not the point.” Dave muttered in distracted Italian under his breath. It didn’t sound flattering. 

“I couldn’t stay in the hospital Dave,” Hotch said, allowing his tone to soften a little because he was not above manipulating a little bit of sympathy. “and I can’t go back to my apartment. Not yet.”

For a moment he thought about the pool of blood that must be on the floor. For a moment he thought about red red _red_ and how long it was going to take to clean it up—

“You’ve got meds?”

“Enough to tranquilise an elephant.” Hotch replied wryly, remembering the bag the doctors had handed him and the strict instructions he’d been given. They hadn't let him leave until he'd arranged follow up appointments. Said they'd take his return to work request 'under advisement'. He just wanted to get back as soon as possible. And, well, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. He wasn’t working, not _really_ ; he just needed to debrief his team, and surely it wouldn’t hurt if he picked up a file or two while he was there. 

“And they agreed you could be discharged?”

He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t climb out a window Dave.”

“I would not put it past you to try.” Rossi replied unapologetically. “I sent Garcia to keep an eye on you, not stage a jail break.”

“It was my idea.”

“Oh I’m not disputing that, Aaron,” Rossi sighed. “just try not to rip any stiches before we get there?”

“Will do. Conference room in twenty.”

“I’ll bring the team.” Rossi paused. “I’ll text Reid.”

He hung up before Hotch could protest. He didn’t want Reid to get dragged into work for this, not when he needed to rest his leg, not when he had just been _shot_. Hotch knew that the younger agent was probably going to be using crutches for a while and did not want to risk aggravating his wound even more. He didn’t want to risk him at all. 

“Someone’s in trouble.” Garcia couldn’t hide her amusement and there was an implicit ‘I told you so’ in her tone. “You going to give Rossi the same puppy eyed stare you gave the doctor?”

Hotch smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Garcia only laughed softly and shook her head. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, humming to herself as she drove.

He found himself sinking into the passenger seat, loose limbed and suddenly so very tired. Something about the motion of the car was lulling him into a stupor, and he shifted a little, the seatbelt an unwelcome pressure, firm like Foyet’s hand on his chest, distracting him with the promise of pain once the drugs wore off. He’d have to remember to take more. Still, he found he was losing the fight to keep his eyes open, blinking slowly, soothed somehow by Garica's gentle humming, feeling safe even though he _wasn't_ and heard himself let out a quiet sigh as he let them close. Just for a moment, just for—

“Sir?”

A hand on his shoulder.

Hotch jolted, eyes snapping open, letting out an involuntary gasp, injuries and seatbelt preventing him from going far. “Garcia?”

“I’m sorry sir.” Her eyes were wide, one hand curled around the steering wheel while the other was still on his shoulder. She quickly retracted it. “It’s just that we’re here.”

The car had stopped. 

He blinked a little, squinted, and sat upright. Tried for calm and missed. “How long?”

“Ten minutes, sir. I didn’t want to wake you but—”

“No, I’m glad you did.” Hotch replied, managing to slow his tone, even it out. He unbuckled his seatbelt with hands that barely shook. “I might need you to carry my bag.”

“Of course, sir.”

He could sense her watching him as they got out of the car and he met her eyes with raised brows and a wry smile. “Don’t tell Rossi I fell asleep.”

Garcia relaxed as they walked in, his teasing bringing them back to safer ground. “Only if you sign my requisition request.”

“Bribery?” Hotch asked, then added. “What’s the request?”

“Just a new system.” Garcia replied innocently. 

“Hmm. I’ll think about it.” Hotch said. “But I do have another favour to ask you—I need you to do something for me while I’m meeting with the rest of the team.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Garcia replied, but he could see she was relieved she wasn’t expected to be there. Hotch wasn’t cruel, hearing what had happened to him was going to be hard on her. Garcia didn’t need that. She needed something she could _do_.

“Never,” Hotch replied fondly. “but I have a phone number that I need tracing, hospital CCTV I need looking at, and there is only one person I trust to do it. Can you help?”

“Can I help? After all these years you’re still asking stupid questions.” Garcia shook her head playfully. “Sir, I’ll find everything there is to know on that son-of-a-bitch.”

“I know you will.” He said.

She offered him his bag, then hesitated. “I’ll come with you to your office.”

Hotch went to take if from her, overextended and hid his wince with ease. “I can carry it.”

Garcia looked him right in the eyes and he knew that she genuinely couldn’t tell if he was in pain or not. She shook her head anyway. “I’ll walk you to your office.”

Hotch hesitated before he went in. He thought about the bandage on his neck, the only visible sign he’d been attacked, and realised just how badly he didn’t want anyone to see it. For a moment his legs wouldn’t move, for a moment he wanted to get back in Garcia’s car, but he was being ridiculous. Worse, he was being needlessly dramatic. 

After all, it would be so much worse when the bandage came off.

It felt longer than usual—the lift seemingly slower—and Hotch knew it was all in his head. He felt slow, unsteady on his feet, tired and achy. It took focus to lengthen his strides, straighten up and keep walking as if nothing was wrong, as if he wasn’t hiding nine stab wounds beneath his pristine white shirt. Garcia was still hovering, and he took the lead instinctively as they exited the lift, opening the glass door for her as they entered the office. It was habit to do so; had always been smooth, effortless and barely worth mentioning, but this time it sent a shock of fire racing down his shoulder.

“Sir!” 

This time he must have winced. 

Hotch smoothed his expression, concentrated on taking a slow breath, and let the door close behind them. “I’m fine.”

“Usually I’d appreciate you going all southern gentleman on me, but could you please forget to be polite for just a little while?” Garcia whispered, obviously trying not to draw attention to them, her eyes flicking around the room.

There was something touching about how she spoke, that she had known he wouldn’t want to make a scene—for his weakness to be visible and catalogued and discussed. Not when everyone around them had made careers out of a talent for gossip. His arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed. He saw curious faces peering at them from around the open office while trying to pretend not to. He saw frowns and wondering, analytical glances. A narrowing of his eyes and they all looked away. There was something satisfying in that.

“No guarantees.” He said simply.

Garcia huffed a little but didn’t push. They walked over to his office together and, while Hotch really did not like the thought of stairs, he managed.

“Where do you want me to put your bag?”

Hotch shrugged. “Anywhere is fine, thank you.”

Garcia placed it carefully on the sofa at the back of his office, turning to him with a small frown. “Remember what the doctors said about taking your medication.”

“To take it as soon as possible. I will, but it’ll make me tired.” Hotch said firmly. “I’ll take it after I’ve spoken to the team.”

“You better.” Garcia said. “Because if you don’t there’ll be trouble.”

Hotch couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t doubt it.”

Hotch guessed that he had about five minutes before the rest of his team arrived. He gave Garcia the number Foyet was texting him on, reminded her about the CCTV as she left, and then closed the door. He didn’t lock it, walked over to his desk and sat down. It was exactly how he had left it; piles of files to his left, an empty mug sat innocuously to his right, pen set in front of him, a closed file ready for him to read directly below that and—

The picture of Jack and Haley he kept on his desk.

He’d set it so it was always just out of his eyeline, easy to find, but not so easy that he’d catch sight of it if he was reading about a particularly heinous case. Hotch had never wanted to risk that blur. Even when he’d still been a lawyer, it had always been his practise. 

There were others, of course, dotted about his office. This one, though, this one, he kept close.

It matched the other photo. The one Foyet had—

Hotch pushed the thought aside. He turned away, forced his eyes elsewhere.

There was an unopened text on his phone—he switched it off silent and read it.

It come through an hour and a half after the previous. He guessed it had been just when Garcia had arrived at the hospital. Hotch smirked. It seemed Foyet had gotten tired of waiting for him to reply. Predictable. 

_you wanted me to stop touching you_

It was obvious Foyet hadn’t been satisfied with Hotch’s own explanation. It was curious and, Hotch had to admit, not entirely inaccurate. He’d been too close, his hand sliding somewhere he had really not wanted it to go, and some part of what he had said next had been on impulse. To get him to stop. But that hadn’t been all that it had been. 

_So I gave you my number?_

_i was getting too close to getting you to blink, and you made a trade instead_

Foyet wasn’t letting this go—wasn’t letting the topic drop—and Hotch wondered why this truth was so important to him. Did he want Hotch to admit it? Or was the prize in the difficulty? The latter seemed to make more sense, Foyet had an overinflated opinion of his own abilities. He’d thrive at being presented with a challenge. He’d want recognition when he succeeded. Hotch wouldn’t give it to him.

_I made a trade for my phone._

_have you looked at the picture? it’s a good one i promise_

Hotch’s fingers froze over the keys of his phone. He’d almost forgotten about that, because he—

_ooh you haven’t have you_

_kitten are you shy? you don’t need to be_

The texts came through in quick succession, too quick for Foyet to truly expect him to reply. No. Foyet was pressing an advantage, picking at a weakness, and Hotch grimaced as he stood up, slipping his phone into his pocket as he left his office. Garcia was tracing this number, would probably _see_ these messages. He needed coffee.

It was perfect timing, he noticed Morgan was standing at the coffee machine. Hotch frowned. No one else was in sight.

“How many of those have you had?”

Morgan jumped. He turned to look at him incredulously. “Seriously Hotch?”

Hotch smirked, unrepentant. “Did I scare you?”

Morgan almost frowned, eyes flicking over Hotch in the space of a split second. They were all profilers, made it their business to examine little details, and Hotch was certain that a picture of exactly what had happened at the hospital was forming in his mind. The bandage at his neck, the hint of bruises his sleeves didn’t entirely hide, and the tinge of exhaustion Hotch knew weighed heavily on him. Hotch was never one to give much away, even now he knew Morgan was struggling for a tell, but there were certain truths you couldn’t erase.

Like the fact you’d been stabbed nine times by a psychopath.

“Yeah,” Morgan said. Hotch knew he was saying something else. “you did scare me.”

“I apologise.” Hotch said calmly, walking closer to take a clean mug from the counter. He knew he'd be unable to reach the cupboard. 

“Should you be drinking caffeine?”

Hotch made a show of making his coffee black (it wasn’t his preference, but it made a point). “Yes.”

“Alright,” Morgan replied with a small smile, there was relief in those eyes—softening a tension in his shoulders. “you do look like you need it. When was the last time had a full nights sleep?”

Hotch shrugged, which was as good as an answer. “Reid here yet?”

“Not yet. Hotch—”

“Everyone else?”

“They’re picking him up so they might be another ten minutes. Sent me on ahead to let you know.” Morgan replied carefully. “We’ve received confirmation on Haley and Jack. They’re safe. Extra security is being looked at now.”

The relief hit him like a sledgehammer, reminded him of what he had very carefully not been thinking about, punched the air from his lungs, and very nearly undid his carefully arranged expression. It very nearly forced out something real and entirely too private for the office, for his team, for _anyone_ , to see. This was an emotion for home, for the privacy of being alone, when the existence of such feeling was only to be felt, released—not observed and commented on. Not _seen_ and judged.

Was home even safe anymore? Home had been with Haley, their house with Jack, and his apartment wasn’t like it at all. His apartment wasn’t—

Hotch let himself smile. He let himself look genuine. “I appreciate it. I know this pulled you straight from another case. I know that—”

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and thought about the surprise of finding something dangerous in a place that used to be safe.

Hotch paused, carefully didn’t reach for it, then continued.

“—Rossi said it was open and shut. Tell me about it.”

Morgan noticed the change in tone, frowned, but this time Hotch gave nothing away. He picked up his coffee, took the lead and gestured for Morgan to walk with him.

“The unsub was in custody when we got there—just needed us to confirm it was them. Prentiss got the confession.” Morgan replied.

“Good.” Hotch said. 

They entered the conference room together. Hotch sat his coffee down on the table. There was a moment of silence, Hotch could feel Morgan shuffle at his side, could sense his hesitation, and turned to face him.

“Going to ask me if I want to talk?” He said dryly. 

Morgan paused for a moment, eyes piercing, before he cut straight to the point. “I may not know exactly what happened to you, but I do know what it’s like to have a man touch you without your consent.”

It was an explicit confrontation he hadn’t expected.

Hotch found himself frowning, immediately understanding why Morgan had waited until they were somewhere private, momentarily at a loss for words. Morgan didn’t give him more than a beat to recover, thankfully didn’t seem to expect him to say anything at all.

“And I know you’re going to say that our experiences are different and, yes, that’s true, but I know how something like that can make you feel.” Morgan’s voice was steady, but his eyes were soft and open. “I know what it can do to you if you bottle it. You gotta talk to someone about this, Hotch, and if it can’t be me, or if you’re not ready yet, then that’s ok. But if you can talk, and you want to, I’m always here.”

“I know.” Hotch found himself saying automatically. Then, more genuinely. “Thank you.”

“Alright,” Morgan said, nodding. Hotch knew that would be the last he said on it. He watched as Morgan put his own coffee down. “Is it alright if I give you a hug?”

“Garcia already gave me one.”

“…You can have more than one, Hotch.” Morgan frowned, then rolled his eyes. “Just c’mere.”

Morgan knew how to avoid putting pressure on his wounds without making him feel like he was delicate. He didn’t hug him like he was about to break, like he needed holding together; Morgan pulled him in without spooking him, held him firmly for a long moment, keeping his hands exactly where Hotch hadn’t known they’d needed to be—keeping them precisely away from where they absolutely couldn’t. It should have been unsettling that he’d known it without being told, that he’d read that need before Hotch even knew it, but it wasn’t. Morgan knew because he knew, not because he’d looked at Hotch and thought ‘victim’.

Hotch would be forced to pick someone to take over as Unit Chief. Morgan would be an excellent choice.

“Am I going to be fielding a lot of those?” 

Morgan grinned. “Let’s just say you worried us and leave it there.”

“Hmm.” Hotch sat down with a frown.

“We’ll catch him Hotch,” Morgan said firmly. “but I know you wouldn’t have called us here so urgently if it wasn’t important. What the hell happened?”

He took a sip from his coffee— expressionless. “We should wait for the rest of the team.”

“Not a story you want to tell twice?”

It was annoyingly accurate. Hotch shrugged. “Something like that.”

They were still drinking their coffee when the rest of the team arrived.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was HARD to write. First time I’ve juggled so many speakers in a scene. I think I rewrote this about three times. How? I think it’s because this has slowed down a little and I'm trying to make sure I've scene set properly. But! Next installment will be back to some action.

*

_you can’t ignore it forever_

“Hotch?” It was Morgan’s voice.

He looked up from his phone, realised he was grimacing, and promptly stopped. “Shall we get started?”

“Are you ok?” Prentiss asked suddenly. “Hotch you look—”

“Pale.” JJ offered when Prentiss paused.

Hotch didn’t quite frown, looking at the rest of the team, seeing worry, because he realised it was a question they all wanted him to answer. For a moment he wondered how he looked to them, if they could see how tired he was. How the ache in his torso was starting to creep up towards an insistent pain. He supposed that was what was making this worse, that they couldn’t see that at all—that by ruthlessly suppressing any tells he was effectively worrying them more— and that what they really needed was reassurance. That he was ok. 

But he also knew any sign that he wasn’t would mean he’d be fielding his teams overprotective mothering for weeks. Though, since he was officially on medical leave, it would probably be months. 

“I know you’re worried.” Hotch said, allowing his tone to soften a little. “I’ll be on medical leave for a while but I’ve been told there’s no permanent damage.”

“Shouldn’t you still be in the hospital?” Reid asked before anyone else could open their mouths. His crutches were leaning against his seat. Hotch shoved away the stab of guilt at the sight of them. There was a frown on his face, eyes flicking over Hotch the same way Morgan’s had, looking for a tell and finding none. Hotch could tell that he wanted to ask if he was alright, like Prentiss had, and knew that this question was his own way of doing that.

Hotch very carefully kept his expression still. “I—”

“Definitely should still be in the hospital.” Rossi interrupted.

“Rossi,” Hotch turned to him with a raised brow, the deliberate use of his surname pointed. They could fight about this later if necessary. “this is important.”

Rossi nodded and Hotch knew he’d understood. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Ok. You can drive me back.” Hotch agreed easily, turning to the rest of his team. “I called you all here because I know that you have questions, and I will do my best to answer them, but I also know that you’ve all come straight from another case. If you’d rather take a break, Rossi can debrief me, and we can pick this up tomorrow.”

“No way, Hotch. We’re all staying.” Morgan said. 

No one contradicted him. If anything, they seemed a little offended he’d even asked. Hotch hadn’t really expected them to leave, knew exactly how stubborn they all were, but it warmed his heart anyway. It felt nice to have his team on his side. It felt nice to know there was a stronger bond between them all than work colleagues. It felt nice to be included in that bond.

He nodded. “Foyet came back, which I don’t think any of us was expecting. Not so soon. There is a taskforce assigned to his case and while, officially, this isn’t in our jurisdiction anymore—we all need to be vigilant. And I’d rather you hear about what happened from me.”

“It’s the only reason you’re telling us any of this, isn’t it?” Reid said with an accuracy that was uncanny, His smile was knowing.

“Maybe.” Hotch admitted with a small smirk. He paused. “I think we should revisit Foyet’s profile.”

Rossi frowned. “You think it’s wrong?”

“Not exactly.” Hotch said wryly.

“Foyet came back for you.” Prentiss said, her own expression was inscrutable but Hotch could make out a tightness around the eyes. “Why?

It was a good question.

Hotch paused. “He brought me flowers.”

Rossi had already known of course, but it was very different to see how he reacted to it in person. To see how they all reacted to it in person. There was that same gut instinct of revulsion, so much harder to hide because they knew him— he saw JJ frown in disgust—but, beneath that, there was interest. There was a profiler’s cool distance. The distance they could maintain on a standard case. It washed over him like a cool breeze, familiar and grounding. It was exactly as detached as he needed this to be.

“That’s odd.” JJ said carefully, frowning. She wasn’t a profiler, but she’d been around them enough to know what was unusual. It was how she picked their cases. “Why would he do that?”

“What type of flowers?” Reid asked instead of answering JJ’s question. 

“Red roses.”

“It’s not remorse, not from Foyet, but do you think he’s using a traditionally romantic gesture to mock you?” Morgan frowned.

“I don’t think so. I think the romantic association was exactly what he was going for.”

Hotch couldn’t watch everyone at once, couldn’t gauge all of their reactions, but he could gauge enough.

“I see.” Rossi said, though he might as well have said ‘I will kill him slowly’ for all the tone matched. The information was new to him and it was clear he wasn’t happy about it. He followed it up with an even more uncomfortable question. “On the phone you said Foyet wanted to show dominance, I can see the bruises, but what happened to your neck, Aaron?”

He didn’t want to say. He knew he couldn’t hesitate. “Foyet bit me.”

Rossi paused. 

Hotch chose to look at him rather than anyone else. He tried hard to lock down his peripheral vision, to ignore it, but couldn’t help but see the flash of horror, so similar to Garcia’s, in the eyes of his team. It embarrassed him. Suddenly he was all too aware of the bandage on his neck, the ones hidden by his shirt, the purpling bruises encircling his wrists. He was all too aware of how still he’d been sitting—how he’d be reminded of vulnerability every time he moved too far, too fast. Hotch wanted to fidget, to tug down his cuffs, but he held Rossi’s gaze evenly and saw the anger flare in his eyes, saw his jaw tense, and Hotch knew that his friend understood just how unhelpful he’d find an extreme reaction. Hotch knew Rossi would wait till they could talk in private before he’d tell him what he really wanted to say.

“Did he do that before or after you pissed him off?” Rossi’s tone was deliberately light, effortlessly fond, and just the right level of exasperated teasing.

It made him feel normal. It helped break the tension. 

Hotch found himself smirking in response, relaxing by a fraction, his tone a little smug. “After.”

“We’re seen biting cases before.” Reid said and he now sounded thoughtful, frowning a little as he puzzled it out. “It’s an incredibly personal attack, though usually it’s a behavioural pattern, but we haven’t seen this on any other Foyet’s other victims. We _have_ seen that he prefers to stab the younger women, usually shooting the males, but he, erm, also stabbed you nine times. If he'd followed the pattern he would have shot you but he didn't. It’s the same sexual substitution we’d profiled for his female victims, but we had never had any evidence he might be bisexual.”

To his credit, Reid only stumbled once, but he quickly moved on from the implication of a sexual act.

Hotch could tell he didn’t want to outright ask him. None of them did. It was petty, but Hotch was comforted by the fact that he was still intimidating enough for that question to be off limits. It made it easier to ignore how his team were looking at him, to tell himself it didn’t matter, to force himself not to dwell on what he saw fading from their eyes.

“You’re right. We hadn’t profiled that. He stabbed me nine times. He came into my room while I was sleeping. He brought me roses, bit me. Up till now his sexual sadism was always more prevalent in his attacks on women. Specifically, his younger victims.” Hotch let his lips quirk with the slightest hint of humour. “Obviously I’m not a teenage girl. So why the change?”

“He set you apart,” Rossi said. “Gave you the same pattern of wounds that he has. That’s not a coincidence. I’m guessing you already know why he did it?”

“Our profile was right.” Hotch said. “But incomplete. He _is_ an omnivore, will attack diverse targets, but only because he has an incredibly specific secondary victim type. Foyet fixates on representations of authority, specifically police authority. He didn’t kill Shaunessy, but the torture of him is very much part of his M.O. Perhaps the most important part. It’s how he was able to stop killing for ten years. He fixates that need in a single person and takes it further; it becomes intimate, sexual, and everything he does becomes about proving himself better than them, about beating them. He wants to win.”

“But he wants a good fight first.” JJ had been quiet up to now, but she made the connection before anyone else spoke.

“Exactly. It was something Shaunessy never gave him,” Hotch replied. “he gave in so easy and, at the time, that was enough. At the time that was exactly what he wanted. Not now. He knows winning is so much better when someone fights back.”

“You became more than just a replacement. You became a better target.” Prentiss frowned. “A more interesting one. And when he came to visit you, you played that up.”

“I did.”

“You think we should look into Shaunessy?” Morgan asked.

Hotch nodded. “I’m going to ask Garcia to see what she can dig up. The task force set up for Foyet will be leading this, but there is no reason not to pool our resources. JJ I’m going to ask if you can speak to any of Shaunessy’s family, see if they had ever seen anything suspicious—strange phone calls, notes, unfamiliar cars hanging by the house. Reid, I need you to look at the note Foyet sent him. Shaunessy also left behind some old correspondence I can get you access to, journals, emails on his computer.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help, you know that.” JJ said gently. 

Reid nodded his agreement. “Do you think there’s something we missed?”

Hotch shrugged and wished he hadn’t, feeling pain flare in his torso, wanting to flinch and refusing to. “I know he was watching him, but I need to know if something like this ever happened. If there were ever any threats.”

“Do you think there were?” 

“I don’t know. The sexual element is something we hadn’t considered with Shaunessy. It’s something we need to revisit.” Hotch admitted. “But I also need you all to be vigilant. With my family currently out of reach, he could target anyone close to me.”

“Can’t put everyone in witness protection.” Prentiss said grimly.

“Exactly. And we can’t keep surveillance on everyone. Not permanently.” Hotch agreed. “If Foyet disappears, then this case goes cold. All he’d have to do is wait.”

Prentiss nodded. “As soon as funding is pulled, it’d be that much easier to attack.”

“And, in the meantime, he gets to keep me from seeing my family. It’s a win win for him.” Hotch said quietly.

“You have a plan though?” Rossi said. “To keep him from going underground.”

“I do.” Hotch paused, hoping they were ready for the bombshell he was about to drop. “Garcia’s tracing his phone number now. I doubt he’ll slip up so easily, but he’s been texting me since the hospital. He couldn’t resist.”

No one in his team was stupid.

Reid asked the question. “How’d you get him to give it to you?”

“He wanted my phone, to find Haley and Jack, but there was no way I could let him take it. Even if there was nothing on it, I couldn’t take that chance.” Hotch began slowly, evenly, because there wasn’t anything he could do to hide this. Not now. Not when it was going into a case file, not when he was going to have to explain this to his bosses. They’d find out eventually. He’d rather it was from _him_. He kept his answer as to the point as possible. “I made him a better offer. I told him he could see my scars, take a picture with my phone, and I sent it to him because I knew he’d like that.”

This time he avoided even Rossi’s eyes. He didn’t even pretend he wasn’t doing it. It was a moment before anyone spoke. 

“You didn’t need to—” This was Prentiss.

“I did.” Hotch very carefully didn’t snap, but he needed to soften his tone before he spoke again. “I needed a way to draw him out. Keep him drawn out. This is better than wondering when he’s next going to attack.”

I can actually _do_ something, Hotch didn’t say.

“If he stays focused on you—” Prentiss said, comprehension growing in her eyes. 

“—He won’t go after anyone else.” Rossi finished.

“Yes.” 

“You’re using yourself as bait.” Rossi wasn’t happy about that.

Hotch fought the urge to shrug. “I know it’s dangerous, against protocol, and I know that you disapprove, Dave. I know Strauss is going to disapprove. It’s why I’m telling you all this. I know that I can trust you to intervene if this goes too far. If things go south, I know that you will have my back.”

“Are you sure?” Morgan asked. He wasn’t asking if he was sure he trusted them.

Hotch nodded. “I’m sure.”

And that was enough for Morgan. For now, at least. He nodded.

“You have any idea what you think he’s going to do next?” JJ asked.

Hotch nodded. “It’ll keep him out in the open, tempt him to make a mistake. He knows as long as he has the threat of Haley and Jack that he has leverage, that I'll play a long, and that sets us at an impasse. He'll save them for last, for the endgame. It isn't time for the endgame yet. This is something new and interesting and he'll want time to enjoy it. He’ll be content texting me for a while, he’s too smart to be easily drawn out, but soon he’ll want something more. He won’t be able to help himself. Outside of an attack on one of us, my best guess is that he’ll intervene in a case, taunt us somehow, or insert himself into it the way we’ve seen from other unsubs. Eventually, he’s going to slip up.”

Rossi frowned. “Will he wait? Aaron, if he tries anything right now—”

“I know.” Hotch said firmly, cutting him off before he could point out how very vulnerable he was. “But the bureau has already put precautions in place, people to watch me, and there will be even more after today. And he doesn’t want me dead yet. I’ll be safer than any of you. It’s another reason I need you to be vigilant while I’m out of the field. No unnecessary risks on cases. No solo investigating.”

“You’re really going to talk to us about risk, Hotch?” Morgan said, but his tone was teasing rather than combative.

“I am.” Hotch said seriously, but he couldn’t help his small, pleased, smile.

“There’s no talking you out of this?”

“There’s not.”

“You didn’t need to ask us, you know.” Prentiss said and her tone had softened, just a little. “Of course, we’ll help. None of us are going to rest until Foyet’s in prison. You’re not alone in this.”

“I know.”

“We were all worried. We’re all just glad you’re ok.” Reid said quietly, then, narrowing his eyes. It seemed he was now brave enough to ask what he couldn't earlier. “You are ok?”

“I’m fine, Reid,” Hotch smiled. It felt truer than it had earlier. There was something soothing about speaking to them; even if he was telling them more than he’d ever choose to, even if it felt like he was revealing more than he should. “Now, if everyone is done mothering me?”

“I haven’t even started.” Rossi muttered.

Hotch ignored him.

“You know you’re going to have to give a proper witness statement.” Morgan said suddenly. “And you know you can’t leave anything out. If you need—”

“I know.” Hotch cut him off smoothly before he could offer to help him. “But I wanted to talk to you all first. Thank you for coming in.”

It was an avoidance, but not one any of his team was going to challenge.

“Now.” Hotch said. “Brief me on this ‘open and shut’ case?”

*

Rossi waited until they were in his car before he spoke.

“Haley and Jack are in Witness Protection because Foyet threatened them.” Rossi always knew how to go right for the jugular. “But he’s done worse to you.”

“Rossi—”

“I trust you Aaron, you know I do.” Rossi said softly, shaking his head a little. “But I am worried and I won’t lie about that.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Hotch said honestly. 

Rossie nodded, sighed and then said. “You know Strauss is going to want to talk to you about this?”

Hotch wanted to shrug but knew it would hurt, kept himself carefully still instead. “She’s not going to like it, but she doesn’t have to.”

Rossi laughed a little. “Business as usual then?”

Hotch smirked. “Pretty much.”

Except this time, _this_ time, Strauss could make a much better case for forcing him out of his job. She’d forced a two week suspension before. It would just depend, as it always did, on how convincing her argument was. It would depend on how many friends Hotch still had in the bureau and how many favours he could cash in if he needed to. Hotch knew that he could weather a fair amount of heat, had done it before, and he knew that bothered her. It wasn’t his ability that she questioned; wasn’t how good he was at his job that concerned her. He'd always respected her and he knew that she respected him. What Strauss really didn’t like was how much influence he had when he really wanted to throw his weight around.

“You got some spare clothes?” Rossi asked, tilting his head towards Hotch’s bag at his feet.

“Yes, but I need to go to my apartment.” Hotch said with little preamble. “I need to see it.”

Dave’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

Hotch frowned. “Dave?”

“I’ll drive you, and then I’ll make you dinner.” Rossi said easily, as if the pause hadn’t happened, grip on the steering wheel relaxing. He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot smoothly. The lack of a fight caught Hotch by surprise. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

Hotch knew he wasn’t getting out of this. “Lasagne?”

“Whatever you want.”

“That’s quite a promise.” Hotch said wryly.

“Aaron—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He’d done nothing but talk today. Hotch saw Rossi open his mouth to speak and cut him off before he could get a word out. He was not above a little bit of manipulation, giving Rossi the same wide-eyed look he’d given the doctor. “Please.”

Rossi frowned, worry creasing his brow, but let it go.

Hotch settled back in the seat of Rossi’s expensive car gingerly, easing himself back with care, blinking because he'd never realised how damn comfortable it was, and instantly felt the urge to curl up and take a nap. He caught sight of Dave’s smirk in the corner of his eye and knew that there was absolutely no way he was falling asleep in this car.

“I thought you might be tired.” Rossi said casually. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hotch said, because if there was anything he knew how to do it was lie through his teeth.

“We’ve got a bit of a drive before we get to your apartment,” Rossi said reasonably, but his expression was endlessly smug. “you could get a decent amount of rest.”

“I probably could.” Hotch said, stubbornly sitting back up a little. He wasn't as careful this time, moved too fast, and it outright hurt and he couldn’t help the little gasp of surprise at the pain. 

“Meds wearing off?” 

“Must be.” Hotch replied evenly. “I’ll take some more when we get there.”

He didn’t tell Rossi that the thought of reaching to his feet and grabbing the pills he needed from his bag was much too painful to seriously contemplate. He didn’t need to though, because Rossi knew him well, perhaps too well, and not two minutes later they slowed to a stop as Rossi pulled the car over with an exasperated eye roll. The bag of medication was pressed into his hands, along with a bottle of water, and Hotch found himself rolling his eyes at his friends overprotective coddling.

“Just take the damn pills Aaron.” Rossi said before he could even open his mouth.

Hotch knew how to pick his battles, so he hid his smirk, nodded, and took his pills obediently. The rest of the journey passed in a comfortable silence broken only by Rossi occasionally swearing in Italian when another driver did something he didn’t like. It was familiar. Safe. The pain had started to fade by the time they pulled up. He found he could unbuckle his seatbelt without needing to tense against a wince.

“I’ll be right back.” Hotch said as he opened the car door.

“You can’t go in alone.”

“I need to.” Hotch said and, then, more urgently. “Please it’s important.”

There was silence for a long moment before Rossi sighed. It seemed Hotch wasn’t the only one who knew how to pick his battles. “Alright. But I’m right here and if you’re not back in fifteen minutes I’m coming up.”

It should have been hard to walk up to his door, should have been a fight, but Hotch found that it was easy. It was habit to unlock it, familiar to turn the key, and the real trouble only began once he was standing in his apartment. It was instinct to look to his left, to search out the bullet hole in the wall, and it was jarring to see that it had already been repaired. The pool of blood was next. His eyes found the spot as if drawn by a magnet. He remembered laying there in the dark as Foyet stabbed him over and over. He remembered feeling his blood soak through the back of his jacket, viscous and sticky. He remembered being irritated at how long it would take to get out of his carpet.

The floor was spotless.

Hotch frowned as he walked over to it, wanting to kneel down and check it was really clean but knowing he couldn’t. Was it odd that he felt annoyed?

His apartment was pristine. Someone had cleaned it up—someone had done what he had done for Elle—and that should make it easier. That should please him.

It didn’t.

It felt too clean now. Looking around it felt like nothing had happened. It felt like it was so easy to erase, wash out; as if everything could go back to normal if only you used enough bleach and knew how to fix a wall. But that wasn’t true. This wasn’t easy to fix. And things were not back to normal. Things weren’t—

There was a rose on his kitchen counter.

It was a flash of red in the corner of his eye, so like the blood that wasn’t a stain on his floor, and Hotch knew even before he walked over to it what it was.

Foyet had been here too.

Why?

The answer came quickly. To show how very easily he could break in, how easily he’d managed it not once, but twice, and all without any sign of forced entry. All without anyone being the wiser. If he hadn’t left this little taunt, Hotch would have had no idea. Because his apartment was pristine. It looked safe when it wasn’t. It looked untouched. Hotch reached for his phone, and this time he didn’t feel helpless, didn’t feel trapped and vulnerable. There was a dangerous anger building, dangerous enough that he knew he needed to make sure he didn’t do anything reckless.

He shouldn’t really be calling him at all. But he needed to know for certain if Foyet was planning on coming back. He needed to _ensure_ Foyet wasn't coming back.

“You were in my apartment.” Hotch said curtly when the call connected. 

“Oh, I wish I could see the look on your face right now.” Foyet chuckled and there was something so smug about his tone. His voice was too close, an intimate croon right in his ear. It almost made Hotch pause, almost made him want to hang up—everything about that tone screamed victorious. “I’m surprised you can even walk, let alone make it back to your apartment. I bet you let those drugs wear off, I bet you’d rather have taken the pain than spend one more minute as pliant as I found you. Was it the bite that did it? Scared you badly enough you just needed to escape?”

Hotch had known it’ll be like this, known that Foyet enjoyed speaking to him like he owned him, but it was another thing to hear it. 

“You don’t scare me Foyet.” Hotch didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to shout to demonstrate his displeasure. “You _annoy_ me.”

“Well someone’s a little grouchy. I hit a nerve?”

“No.” Hotch said, picking up the rose and wondering if he could just toss it in the trash. “But, really, leaving another rose?”

“That’s what’s got you so agitated?” Foyet chuckled. 

Hotch rolled his eyes, took the time to pause, but couldn’t quite convince himself to soften his tone to calm. “That why you did it?”

“I think you know why I did it. I think you’re afraid. So very afraid and trying to hide it behind anger.” Foyet said and for the first time he sounded serious rather than playful. “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”

Hotch didn’t say anything, grip tightening on his phone.

Foyet didn’t let the silence drag on for long. “Tell me how you feel right now, Aaron. Drowsy? I know you must’ve noticed how hard it is to move around, how those stitches can be tugged by the slightest pressure, and how your whole body is just so terribly worn. Are you struggling to hold your phone to your ear yet? You forget, I’ve been there. I know exactly what it feels like. How the meds will make you so very tired before you’re used to them. You just want to sleep, don’t you kitten?”

Hotch refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting there was any truth in what he said. He refused to think about the fact that he couldn’t even carry his own bag right now, that he had to be careful when opening doors, that he couldn’t reach up to a _cupboard_. He refused to think about how he’d fallen asleep in Garcia’s car.

He refused to think about how his arm was starting to ache.

Foyet chuckled when Hotch didn’t answer. “I know I’m right. And what you really want to know is if I’ll break in again. You know you can’t fight me. Oh, how galling this must be, I bet it's been eating at you all day, until it finally pissed you off enough to give me a call.”

It was that same purring tone he’d used before, that same possessive edge Foyet seemed so fond of using when he spoke to him. It was decidedly unwelcome. 

“And will you?” Hotch asked instead of giving Foyet the reaction he wanted. 

“You’re the profiler, what do you think?”

Hotch paused and decided not to even his temper. “Just answer the damn question. You don’t care what I think about it.”

“Wow you really are grumpy today, but maybe you’re right.” Foyet said and, then, a little slyly. “Where are you standing, agent? Are you looking at where I pinned you down? Are you thinking about how easily I could do it again?”

“No.” Hotch was still standing by his kitchen counter. His hands were shaking, but his voice was steady. Not calm. But steady.

“Liar, but that’s ok. You’re scared. I understand, shh, let me reassure you—” Foyet paused and Hotch could hear his smile. He could hear just how pleased Foyet was at his perceived victory, at being able to so brazenly point out his vulnerability. “We had fun, didn’t we? You looked so good. And as tempting as it is to do it again, it’s going to be so much better if I wait.”

“I don’t need your reassurance.” Hotch bit back, as if this confirmation wasn’t the exact reason he called.

Foyet chuckled. “Yes, you do. It’s ok. You’re just a little shy about asking for what you want, I can work with that. I’ll wait until you’re fully healed, but if you want to think of me coming for you in the middle of the night, well, we all have our _fantasies_.”

Hotch almost sighed at how predictable Foyet could be with his language sometimes. He probably played it up, trying to get a rise out of him, but it was always so typically sexual. Typical to the point that there was always some sort of innuendo laced with his words. 

“And what’s yours?” Hotch said mockingly, turning his own tone to sly insinuation. “You going to be thinking of me? I think the reality is going to be very different.”

“Maybe I’ll think about how worth it the wait is going to be. Next time you’re going to be healthy, strong.” Foyet said it like a promise, like he was already imagining it. There was a twisted excitement in his voice, a thrilled anticipation. “No excuses then, no little lies to explain it away, to justify how I was able to overpower you. I’ll let you have a little break. Knife wounds are a bitch to recover from, need a lot of rest. But when I decide it’s time, you’ll never see me coming.”

It was the confirmation Hotch had been looking for, goading for. It didn’t make him feel any better. But, maybe—

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Tell you what, if you need something a little more concrete to calm you down, I’ll make you an offer. As long as I receive a text from you every day, a nice little update on how you’re doing, on how those scars are healing, I promise I’ll be patient.” Foyet said soothingly, speaking so gently, as if Hotch was _fragile_. He was still so smug. Still so confident Hotch was terrified by him. “How’s that for a trade?”

Foyet thought he was initiating but he was playing by the rules that Hotch had defined. The rules he had insisted on. A trade not a deal.

It was progress.

It was in line with what Hotch had wanted, planned for, the use of himself as bait. 

It proved that the game was something Foyet had decided he wanted too. It proved that the Reaper was participating, that he wanted to participate. Because he had taken the bait and he was enjoying himself enough to be blind to how he was being manipulated. This was objectively a harmless request. The aim here was to humiliate Hotch, to force him to capitulate to something so small as to be effectively meaningless, simply because Foyet wanted the pleasure of being obeyed. And oh, Foyet thought this was his idea, but it was _Hotch_ who had changed the rules and altered what was on the table. It was Hotch who was going to get the most out of this. It was Hotch who was going to use this to catch the bastard. And right now? Hotch knew exactly how he would play him. 

“What are you? A fourteen-year-old clingy boyfriend?” Hotch laughed mockingly.

“I did get you roses,” Foyet didn’t seem offended but he did sound a little surprised—intrigued by the taunt. He hadn’t expected it. “maybe you like playing a little hard to get, though.”

“I’m no blushing bride.”

“Interesting phrase there kit—”

But Hotch cut him off viciously. 

“You didn’t pick a fight with another Shaunessy,” Hotch growled and it felt good to be angry. “you picked a fight with _me_. I’m not so easy to intimidate. And I’m not just going to do whatever you want.”

“That a no?” 

Hotch paused to test the waters—let it drag and drag—and he knew he had him when Foyet didn’t fill the silence.

“I want something else. Something extra.” Hotch said with a smirk that Foyet couldn’t see but he really hoped he could hear it in his voice. “You don’t go near me, but you don’t come near my team, either.”

“Not going to specify your ex-wife? Or sweet little Jack?”

Foyet was trying to let him know he still knew which buttons he could push. Hotch’s grip on his phone tightened, he ignored how his hand shook, how his arm was really starting to ache. “You’d never go for that. You’d never stop trying to find them.”

“Maybe I would. If you put something more interesting on the table.” Foyet purred but Hotch knew it was a lie, a taunt meant to push him. “But you’re right. I suppose we can add your team, sweeten this a little for you.”

Interesting word choice. But Foyet had let himself be persuaded; he had added something into this because _Hotch_ had asked. He’d given a concession. But did he mean it?

“How generous.” Hotch said dryly. “You better keep your word.”

“You know I will. I kept it to Shaunessy, didn’t I? I can keep one tiny little promise to you. Though, with the addition of your team, don’t think I haven’t noticed it getting a little one-sided…”

Hotch had wondered if Foyet would say anything.

“You want something else.”

“I very much do. But I’ll collect another time. You don’t have to worry your pretty little head about what else to offer me. I know you’re not quite there yet. Just wanted to let you know I’d noticed, and I will be keeping track of what you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You do.”

They were both silent for a moment. Foyet let out a little laugh.

“Well you have a good evening, sweetheart.” Foyet paused instead of hanging up outright. When he spoke again, all traces of lightness were gone from his tone. The change was as chilling as it had been in the hospital. “And Aaron?”

Hotch knew what was coming next.

“Look at the picture.”

Rossi was waiting patiently outside his car when Hotch came down.

“I know you ditched the agents assigned to watch you at the hospital,” He said with more than a hint of disapproval. “but I thought you might appreciate some distance. They know you’re staying with me tonight.”

“Thank you.”

They didn’t speak as they got into the car and it was only after five minutes of driving that Hotch realised Rossi was watching him out of the corner of his eye, waiting patiently, and he couldn’t help but smile fondly. He shook his head, leant back in the seat of Rossi’s fancy car. This time he let himself close his eyes.

“Make me dinner.” Hotch said. “And then I’ll tell you everything.”

*

_It’s just a photo. A little boudoir though, don’t you think?_

_too you long enough to look but don’t worry, it’s keeping me company until we meet again_

_Don’t count on that_

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part will be out next week :) it's completely finished and just needs editing. Still no idea where I'm going with this but we'll see what happens.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone notice how Hotch opens doors for Garcia? Or, actually, any woman? I've been re-watching and it's really stood out as being quite sweet. He never makes a fuss about it. I've also noticed Reid always wears his watch over his shirt sleeve. The show is so good with those little details.
> 
> Ok, I lied, Hotch get's TWO hugs. Because. He needs them. Also, I've scrutinised this an awful lot and I'm still not 100% happy but I hope you enjoy. I'm not entirely sure where this series is going yet but I'm having fun writing something new.


End file.
